


Our Own Story

by tifaching



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: All Dean wants is to cut his own Christmas tree this year.  What could go wrong?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34
Collections: SPN J2 Xmas Exchange





	Our Own Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardustdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustdean/gifts).



> Written for stardustdean at the SPNJ2 x-mas exchange on Live Journal.

Dean sees the beer can wreath at the liquor store and almost walks off with it for old time’s sake. He drops the case of PBR on the counter next to bourbon, rum and three bottles of pre-spiked eggnog and stares at the ring of Budweiser cans for a moment before shaking his head.

“You want it?” The clerk glances from Dean to the wreath and back. “Can let you have it for five bucks. Won’t take me a minute to make another.”

“Nah.” Dean says with a bit of real regret. “Different time, different place, maybe. But this year, nope.”

“Gotcha,” the clerk says, ringing him up and nodding at Dean to swipe his card. “But if you’re looking for the real thing, my kid’s Girl Scout troop is selling them in front of Lebow’s.”

“My next stop.” Dean tucks the case under one arm and scoops up the box with the bottles. “Maybe I’ll pick one up while I’m there.”

“Hey,” the clerk says as Dean’s nudging the door open with his hip. “My kid’s name’s Maura. Tell her I sent you and maybe she’ll give you a deal.”

“Sure thing,” Dean says, nodding. “Merry Christmas, man.” The clerk’s response follows him out into the chill of the cloud dark afternoon.

*

It’s spitting snow when Dean leaves the grocery store, the usual supplies laid in for the week plus a spiral ham, a bag of potatoes, a bag of frozen green beans, an apple pie, a pumpkin pie and a buttload of snacks. There are two tables set up outside the door and he loads the food in the trunk before he heads over to check them out. There are short lines at both so he hangs back, stamping his feet and blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. When he gets to the front of the line and gets a look at the table a soft groan escapes his lips.

“See something you like, hon?” The speaker is huddled beneath a candy cane bedecked fleece blanket and a knitted hat barely containing flyaways from her grey flecked hair. “Individual cookies are fifty cents, a dozen for five dollars and the pies and cakes start at eight. All money goes to the Lebanon library fund.”

“Gotta love a good library,” Dean says, eying a plate full of Santa shaped cookies and a strawberry rhubarb pie. “My little brother spent half his childhood in them.”

“They’re a refuge for a lot of kids,” she says with a smile. “So, what’s it going to be?”

“How much for the plate of Santa cookies and the strawberry rhubarb pie?”

“Thirteen even,” she says, pulling off her mittens and opening the cash box.”

Dean hands her a twenty and collects his goodies. “Keep the change,” he says, returning her bright smile. “And Merry Christmas.”

His smile widens as he walks across to the display of wreaths surrounded by small figures in brightly colored parkas. “Hey,” he says as he approaches the girls. “You got some real nice looking wreaths here.”

“We decorated them ourselves,” a girl in a red coat says, voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around her face. “You gonna buy one?”

“Are you Maura?” Dean asks. “’Cause I hear I can get a deal.”

“I’m Maura,” says a girl by the cash box wearing a camo jacket and SkiDoo hat with a turned up brim. She rolls her eyes with a sigh. “And don’t listen to my dad. We don’t make deals.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dean gives Maura a thumbs up. “Not making deals is a good way to go through life. Well, let’s see what you’ve got.” He makes a circuit around the rack and it certainly looks true that the girls did the decorations themselves. Strings of popcorn, sprigs of plastic holly and hand painted wooden ornaments nestle among the fragrant green boughs. There are no white flowers, but it never hurts to be sure. He pokes his head around the rack. “No meadow sweet in these, is there?”

“That stuff’s way out of our price range,” says a woman next to Maura with a slash of a smile. “The girls work hard to stay within our budget.”

“Never was a fan of it.” Dean peers at a wreath hanging off the side of the rack. “Now this is more like it. How much?”

“I made that one,” says the little girl in the red coat excitedly. “It’s fifteen dollars.”

“Well, it’s just right, sweetheart. My little brother will approve.” Dean digs out another twenty and hands it to Maura with instructions again to keep the change.

“Thank you,” she says, tucking the bill away. “The boys are selling trees down at the hardware store if you still need one.”

“Think I’m going to cut my own this year,” Dean says, because why not? This is a special Christmas and he can swing an axe with the best of them.

“Better hurry up, then…” The woman, pauses for a second looking at Dean expectantly, then raises an eyebrow.

“Um, Dean,” Dean says, catching on. He gives her his best smile, because she is kind of cute with her rosy cheeks and her elf hat. “And you are?” “Maria,” she says with a real smile of her own. “I’m the girls’ Scout leader. And if you’re thinking about cutting your tree at one of the local farms, they start getting sparse this close to Christmas.”

“I was kind of thinking of going out in the woods and getting one.” Dean shrugs and gestures in the direction of a forest, somewhere. “I mean, people do that, right?”

“I guess,” Maria says. “Maybe. But there aren’t any woods nearby to do that in. Fir trees don’t exactly grow in Kansas. When I lived in Colorado my dad used to get ours from a forest a couple of hours away, but that’s a long way to go from here to get a tree. Plus, there was some weird stuff happening out there and I don’t think anyone is allowed in those woods anymore.”

“How do they keep people out? No trespassing signs and a chain across the parking area?”

“Well, yeah.” Maria lip curls up at his tone. “I guess it wouldn’t be very effective.”

“So, tell me why no one is allowed out there.” Dean lowers his voice conspiratorially and winks at the girls. “Is it Bigfoot?” *

“You want to do what, now?” Sam shakes his head and swallows a mouthful of the mushroom and bacon pizza Dean picked up at his last stop before returning home. “You know the Boy Scouts are selling them right at the hardware store.”

Dean turns in his seat to look out the door to where the wreath he bought is hanging on the iron bannister of the stairwell, shining softly in the glow of the lights he’d strung there before his shopping trip. Sam hadn’t been nearly as enamored of the bright red noses painstakingly painted on the wooden reindeer as Dean had thought he would be. He couldn’t get enough of the show as a kid. “Look,” he says, with his best entreating gaze. “This is the first real, non-scripted Christmas we’ve ever had. And even our fake Christmases weren’t very, you know, merry. I mean, there’s no apocalypse going on, we’re not pissed at each other and neither of us is dead or dying. We can try something new for once in our lives, don’t you think? I mean, if we hate getting our own tree, next year we hit up the Boy Scouts, what do you say?”

“Where are we even going to get one? Pine trees don’t grow in Kansas, dude.”

Dean sighs as he slips Miracle his pizza crust under the table and grins as the dog licks his fingers clean of bacon grease and sauce. Trust Sam to know that. “Well, the troop leader for the Girl Scouts I bought the wreath from told me about a place in Colorado-“

“Colorado?” Sam cuts his brother off mid-explanation. “The Colorado border is four hours away, almost. And getting to any forest that has a tree we might want would be hours from there. We are not driving twelve or thirteen hours round trip to get a Christmas tree.”

“You got plans with some hot chick tomorrow and the next day, or what? Why are you so against this? We drive there, get a hotel, get a tree and come back.” Dean digs his fingers into the soft fur behind Miracle’s ears and kneads them as he works on convincing his brother. ”Sam, why are you the boy who hates Christmas?”

Sam laughs and shakes his head. “That is so not going to work this time. You are not dying. And the last two actual Christmases we had, I ended up getting my fingernails pulled out. I am more than willing to have a nice Christmas here in the bunker but I am not going to Colorado to get a tree. Have fun, don’t chop your leg off and I’ll help you set it up when you get back.”

“Okay, but if you’d let me finish telling my Colorado story, you would have gotten the fact that there might be a hunt there into your anti-traveling mind.”

“What kind of a hunt?”

Dean doesn’t let his brother’s obvious skepticism get him down. “Well, Maria, that’s the Girl Scout leader, told me a story about a patch of forest where a half dozen separate groups went out to cut their own trees and never came back. Search parties found no sign of them. She hasn’t kept up with it, but says that patch has been closed down and posted for years by the Forest Service.”

“And?” Sam pulls another piece of pizza from the box.

Dean takes advantage of his brother’s full mouth to continue with his tale. “One person did get out. A kid about nine or ten who was out with his dad. Search party found him walking down the road in shock, freezing, going on about a tree monster taking his father. The searchers managed to find his trail out of the woods but when they followed it back there were no other tracks. Not from the father or whatever took him.”

Taking a last swallow of his beer, Sam wipes his mouth with a napkin and tilts his head toward his brother. “When did all this happen?”

“According to Maria, the kid’s dad was the last one and that was about ten years ago. Since then nothing.”

“You done any research on this at all, other than to get this Maria’s phone number?”

“Sam, there were children present.” Dean shuts the pizza box and gets up to put the leftovers away. His lip curls up at Sam’s eyeroll. “But I’ll definitely get it when they sell their cookies.”

“Long as you get some cookies too.” Sam stretches as he gets up from the table. “I’m turning in. If you’re driving to Colorado tomorrow you better get some sleep.”

“If we’re driving to Colorado tomorrow,” Dean yells after him, heading for the kitchen with Miracle at his heels. 

*

He boots up his computer before he hits the rack, searching Colorado disappearances, Christmas and trees. It takes a bit of digging, but the story pops up in several local papers spanning months. Kurt Masterson, age 12, was out with his father looking for a Christmas tree. Dean’s brow creases as he reads the accounts until a grin spreads across his face. “Bingo,” he whispers before nudging Miracle out of the middle of the bed as he crawls under the covers. Sam is definitely coming with him tomorrow. “You got to stay here, though, kiddo,” he whispers to the dog. “I’ll put down lots of newspapers and extra food.”

*

They’re halfway to Colorado and Sam is pouring yet another cup of coffee from the thermos before he speaks his first words to his brother. “There better be a hunt here Dean, so help me God.”

“Weren’t you listening at all this morning?”

“It’s still this morning Dean. That was at the crack of dawn and you were dragging me out of bed yammering something about trees. You’re lucky I managed to get dressed in, like, the two minutes you gave me before you rushed me out of the bunker.

“I gave you plenty of time and bacon and eggs for breakfast. What, were you sleep eating?”

“Are you sure it’s a tree spirit?” Sam sinks down in his seat and upends the thermos, forlornly watching the last few drops fall into his cup.

“From the description in the papers, it could be the twin of the one that almost skewered you on that hunt in Montana when you were what, fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” Sam says with a twist to his lips.

“Well, you did a brilliant job of distracting it while Dad and I shot it full of flaming arrows. Good thing we were near a lake or we would have set the whole damn forest on fire.”

“Mmm,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Any idea on how we’re going to take this one out? Assuming it’s even still there?”

“Well, I brought bows. And arrows. But this being winter, they might not work as well this time.” He looks at Sam and waggles his eyebrows. “And I brought the grenade launcher. “Cause, you know, we didn’t have one of those last time.”

“Can’t believe Dad never got his hands on one,” Sam says with a snort. “Because it sure would have come in handy a whole lot of times.”

Dean pops a new tape in and taps on the steering wheel as Metallica blasts out of the speakers. The sun’s rising behind them and bright light glints off the snow lining the highway as the Impala rolls along.

*

They reach Conifer, just outside of Pike National Forest a little after two but they keep on to the parking lot of the trailhead the Masterson’s had taken into the woods. The lot’s not plowed, so Dean doesn’t bother getting out to cut the chain holding the gate closed and instead pulls the Impala off the side of the road near the entrance. The sun is still shining brightly, lighting the tops of the trees, but the path leading under them is shadowed. Dean gets out, Sam right behind him and clambers over the iron gate, grunting as he levers himself over the top. Sam swings right over it with no effort at all and Dean resists the urge to start a snowball fight. The snow in the lot is crusty but not too deep, their boots sinking only down to the ankle. It crunches underfoot as they approach the trees.

“Not going to be able to sneak up on anything tomorrow,” Dean grumbles, scrutinizing the faded wooden trail map. He reaches out to circle a trio of barely visible pine trees. “Here’s the main Christmas tree trail. Looks like it goes a mile or two in. I mean, who wants to drag a tree back further than that, right?”

“Not me, that’s for sure. If we manage to not disappear tomorrow and you get your tree you better have a way to get it back to the car yourself.” He stares at Dean with narrowed eyes. “I can’t believe you’re going to strap a freakin’ tree with scratchy needles and branches to the top of the car anyway. Are you sure you’re my brother?”

“I got it covered, man. You think I’d risk my baby?” Dean clomps back across the parking lot and rubs a hand across the Impala’s ice frosted roof. “You know I’ve got it covered, don’t you, girl.” He looks up to catch Sam sending an amused smile his way and sends his brother a mock affronted look before getting in the car.

*

“Okay, so let’s go over it again.” Sam pushes the crumb filled paper wrapper from his fish tacos to the side of the table and settles a beer down in its place.

“So,” Dean says, pulling another beer for himself out of the fridge. “The kid said nothing happened until his dad hit the tree with the axe but the shit hit the fan right away after that. The ground started to shake, there was a noise like the wind in a tornado-“

“But no wind?”

“No wind. There wasn’t a great description of the tree. Poor kid was too busy running. But from what he saw, it was about two or three times as tall as his dad, covered in moss and the branches were long and thin and whipped around like one of those rides at the fair.” Dean takes a long pull from his beer and blows out a breath. “And at the end, he said the ground wasn’t just shaking, it seemed to be really moving under his dad’s feet. Cops said he must have been in shock, because, you know, cops.

“Yeah.” Sam shakes his head and blinks. “So, you take the grenade launcher, I take the flaming arrows and tomorrow we end this thing?”

“That’s the plan. Maybe a couple of machetes to go along with the axes too. Be prepared, that’ s our motto, right?.”

“Dad made sure.” Sam lifts his bottle and clinks it with Dean’s. “Here’s hoping the damned thing’s still there.”

“Here’s hoping.”

Later, when the lights are down, Dean listens to Sam’s breathy snores from three feet away and feels a small pang at how much he misses this. The bunker is home, they’ve made it home, but being out on the road is a feeling he’s missed. Maybe in the spring he can talk Sam into a road trip. Just a nice, stress free vacation for them and Miracle to enjoy.

*

The next morning dawns grey and overcast. Sam grabs breakfast burritos and coffee from the motel restaurant while Dean preps the arrows for their fiery mission. The blades are already sharp but he passes a whet stone over them a few times just to be sure. The grenade launcher is always, always ready to go.

“All right, let’s get out there.” Dean stuffs the last of his burrito into his mouth and slings the weapons bag over his shoulder. “Weather’s supposed to hold until tonight, but I don’t want to take any chances. Getting caught in a white out in the middle of the woods wouldn’t really be optimal for our plan.”

“For killing the tree demon?”

“And getting the Christmas tree. Don’t forget about the Christmas tree, Sam.”

“Like you’d let me.” Sam follows Dean outside, slamming the door behind him.

*

The path through the woods is dim and still, only the creaking of branches and the occasional call of a bird competing with the sound of their footsteps. Sam’s got a hat pulled down over his ears, strands of hair curling out around his neck. Dean’s a few steps behind and he can’t resist.

“You know, Sammy, if you’d just let me take a pair of scissors and trim right where that hat ends, you wouldn’t need nearly as much fancy shampoo for that mop of yours.” Sam’s raised middle finger is his only reply and Dean laughs to himself as he follows his brother down the trail. The path broadens as they travel and they tread warily, moving away from each other as they step into a clearing just as the sun peeks out of a gap in the clouds.

“Wow.” Sam’s staring at the tree centered in the sudden sunbeam in the middle of the clearing.

“Yeah.” Dean nods his agreement. The tree’ s a little taller than him, a little shorter than Sam and so perfectly shaped that it could have been set dow here right from a book on the best of the best Christmas trees that anyone could ever want to cut down. “Soooo, trap?”

“Definitely.” Sam drops the weapons bag and his bow from his shoulder and sticks his arrows fletch down in the snow, ready to be lit. “Let’s spring it and get out of here before my toes freeze solid.”

“All right.” Dean loosens the straps holding the grenade launcher to his back so he can get it to his hands smoothly and picks up his axe, moving to the center of the clearing. “Be distracting, Sammy.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam light his arrows and nock one in his bow, staggering as the ground immediately shifts beneath his feet. A high pitched screech fills the air rivaling the howl of the wind in a gale. And then, between one blink and the next, it’s there.

“Shit,” Dean says, fighting to maintain his own footing. The ground is actually writhing under his feet, frozen clumps of earth dragged out of place to leave a yawning cavern opening behind him. Switch thick branches lash out and he can feel bruising lacerations blooming beneath his clothes. Sam’s arrow goes flying by, batted down by the flailing tentacles but the distraction works and he’s able to drop the grenade launcher into his hands. He’s only going to get one shot and he better make it a good one. “Take cover, Sam!”

“Go, Dean,” is Sam’s muffled reply. Dean can’t look to see if it’s muffled because Sam has taken cover or if he’s being strangled by the tree so he does what he can do aiming the grenade center trunk and tightening his finger on the trigger. As he’s about to pull it, a root wraps itself around his ankle, twisting him off balance while a second wraps around his waist, propelling him backward into the pit that’s reached his position. Only a lifetime of muscle memory and trigger discipline saves him from sending the grenade off into the forest. As he’s falling, he grits his teeth, tucks the launcher against his side and fires, letting out a breathless but heartfelt “Fuck you, Chuck,” when it hits right where he aimed. The tree stills for a moment, branches, roots, screeching, then explodes, chunks of pulverized wood raining down like mortar shells. Dean folds his arms across his head but the only chunk of wood that lands in his vicinity is caught by a lattice of roots strung above him. He struggles to take in the breath knocked out of him by the fall but only manages to whoosh one out as a flaming arrow arcs overhead. The band around his chest eases and air flows in to his needy lungs as Sam’s face appears above him.

“Dean? You ok?”

_Yeah,_ Dean wants to say. _Of course._ but the words won’t come. He doesn’t think they’re true anyway. His right shoulder has the specific numbness of dislocation and his ankle feels like it’s on fire where it is still manacled by the tree root. His vision is fuzzy, or maybe it’s just Sam’s face that is. The issue doesn’t become clearer when Sam drops down beside him and Sam’s face is right up close and personal with his, checking for headwounds and peeling back his eyelids. Still kind of fuzzy. “’m stuck,” he manages, gesturing vaguely at his ankle. “An’ my shoulder’s fucked up.”

“Just hold on. I’m going to get you out.”

Sam’s voice is receding, though his fuzzy face is still right there. It’s cold down here in the frozen ground with the tree roots and the wood chunks and, Dean turns his head a little, the bones. “S’m.”

“I see them, Dean.” 

Sam’s sawing through the tree root with his knife and Dean lets out a tiny whimper of relief when he’s free. He feels his brother’s fingers probing and manipulating the joint.

“Think your boot saved you some damage there. All right, let’s get us somewhere warm, ok?” Sam’s hand slides under Dean’s good shoulder and gently eases him to a sitting position. “Can you stand?”

Dean can’t, but he never really lets things like that stop him. Wrapping a hand around Sam’s forearm, he takes a deep breath. “OK.” Sam rises slowly to his feet, bringing Dean along with him. Dean takes one step forward at his brother’s side before the sky slips sideways and his head spins him down into darkness.

*

It’s warm when Dean wakes up, and quiet. He’s tired but his head feels clear. Taking stock of his injuries, there’s a sling on his right shoulder and his left ankle is sore but not throbbing, propped on at least three pillows. A familiar warmth is stretched out beside him and he laughs as a wet nose probes his ear. “Hey buddy,” he says, wrapping his good arm around the dog. The desk lamp in the corner provides enough light to see Sam sacked out in a chair by the door. He stirs when Miracle yips happily as Dean rubs his belly.

“Hey.” Sam rotates his shoulders and yawns, running his fingers through his hair. “How you feeling?

“Not bad, actually.” Dean sits up cautiously and then swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Crap! Did I miss Christmas?”

“Just in time for Christmas Eve, dude. Well, this time. You’ve been in and out.” 

“Are you OK?”

Sam laughs and slowly twists from side to side after he gets up from the chair. “Strained my back a little lugging your dead weight two miles through the woods to the car and then down the bunker stairs. Dude, you need a diet.”

“Maybe you just need more strength training, Princess.” Dean gets to his feet, batting Sam’s hand away when he tries to help. “Hey, did you get the tree?”

“The tree,” Sam says. “You mean from the woods? When the grenade went off, that tree turned to kindling. By the time we left, there was no tree.”

“Oh.” Dean tries not to let his disappointment show, but Sam claps him on his good shoulder and smiles as he heads out of the room.

“C’mon. Make it as far as the library and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Dean limps after his brother and slowly makes his way down the hallway, leaning on the wall for support when Sam’s not looking. When he reaches the entrance to the library he stops short, a delighted smile spreading over his face.

“You like?”

Dean stares at the tree in the corner, leaning a little crooked in its stand. Tiny colored lights flash on and off and red and green glass balls hang from the branches. “I like,” he replies. “But I’ve got some ornaments too.

“Oh, you told me.” Sam grins at Dean’s confused look. “You were in and out, remember? I didn’t want to tell you we got a Boy Scout tree, but you made sure your ornaments got put on whatever we ended up with.”

Dean looks more closely at the tree and sees the wizard’s spellbook ornament he got for Sam hanging alongside Miracles monogrammed dog bone. He makes his way to the table and falls into a chair, still staring at the tree.

“Here,” Sam says, handing him a small package. “This one’s for you.”

Dean peels back the paper and opens the box to find a tiny replica of the Impala. He clasps it in his hand as he looks up at his brother. “Thank you, Sam. I love it.” He starts to get out of his chair again, sinks back down. Holding out the ornament, he looks at Sam and shrugs. “You mind?”

Sam takes the ornament and hangs it on the tree, spacing it between two lights so their glow reflects from its glossy surface. He circles out to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of egg nog, placing one in front of his brother. “Non-alcoholic today, Dean. Maybe you can work your way up to the high octane version tomorrow. He raises his glass. Merry Christmas.”

Dean stares at Sam’s hands, one wrapped around the glass, the other splayed on the table. “You got all your fingernails, man.”

“I do.” Sam studies his nails for a moment. “We did it, Dean. Our own story.”

“Our own story.” Dean looks at the tree and can’t stop smiling. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”


End file.
